Yesterday, New York's Daily Intel offered the following fret about ex-Gawker editor Emily Gould's big cover story in the Sunday Times Magazine - a personal essay about personal lives in the age of blogging, or something like that:
What troubles us about Gould's oncoming article is not that it will be a rehash of everything we've seen before. It's that people will mistake her perspective on the Internet, writing, and fame as the perspective of an entire generation of bloggers. (Much the way, as the Observer noted, Joyce Maynard's essay in the Times Magazine in 1972 seemed to speak for a generation of young women.) In our experience reading her work, she rarely ventures outside of her own head. Hence, not the best representative of a social subclass. Millions of people blog, many of them about themselves. But if past work is anything to judge by, we're not going to be reading about them this weekend. Except for the ones Gould slept with.
They needn't have worried: I seriously doubt that even the least internet-savvy reader will mistake Gould's astonishingly dull non-romp through her deeply trivial travails for the voice of a generation of bloggers. The only question is who comes out of this piece looking worse - Gould herself, or whichever editor thought her limp prose and less-than-riveting love life deserved 7937 words in one of America's best magazines.